


Calamus

by whatthedubbs



Series: Poetry of the Moon's Light [5]
Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: #Let Runaan Have Fun 2k20, Aren't they?, Cooking, Friends to Lovers, Humans are just the worst, Is a strange tag but still accurate, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor dub-con in chapter two, Moonshadow OSHA, NOTHING HAPPENS TO EITHER RUNAAN OR ETHARI IN THIS JUST TO BE CLEAR, Nothing bad anyway, Runaan and Ethari are playing flirtation chicken, Runaan is Lain and Tiadrin's childhood friend, Runaan is an assassin and occasionally has to kill people for work, Socially Literate!Runaan, There is actually very little angst here, despite the above tags, lots of worldbuilding, magical compulsion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthedubbs/pseuds/whatthedubbs
Summary: Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting,Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them,And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.-Walt Whitman.  From Book V of Leaves of Grass ('Calamus')--Runaan moves back home to Silvergrove after spending twenty years training as an assassin, and meets a very captivating blacksmith.
Relationships: Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince), Lain/Tiadrin (The Dragon Prince)
Series: Poetry of the Moon's Light [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560703
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	1. O You Whom I Often and Silently Come

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, prepare for headcanons because there are lots of them here. You've been warned. Also for self-aware!Runaan and an assassin's guild organization that actually cares about the mental health of its agents. 
> 
> Title from Book V of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, titled 'Calamus' after a type of grass that has a very suggestively-shaped floral head. Calamus is the homoerotic book of Leaves of Grass, and each chapter will reference a particular poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,  
> As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,  
> Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is  
> playing within me.
> 
> -Walt Whitman

In the days and weeks that follow his first moon spent in Silvergrove, Runaan learns many things about the elf who has so thoroughly captured his attention. 

His name: Ethari; is one of the very first. Given freely as the elf in question leads the way back to the village from Runaan’s moon-reading. Runaan has never understood what people meant when they said a name _suited_ someone before; but he thinks he might now. As soon as he hears it, he can’t imagine this elf bearing any other name. The way his name feels in his mouth feels _right;_ although he lacks the words to explain why.

The very next afternoon he learns that Ethari is quite possibly one of the best crafters he has ever encountered. The walls of his smithy and shop are covered in racks upon racks of weapons and tools and jewelry, shelves of neatly-bottled salves and carved figures, barrels of finished arrows of various weights and fletchings. Each and every piece he picks up hums with the same quiet and serene energy. Calming to hold; sure of their purpose and ready to serve. 

Runaan has met at least a dozen smiths who might be Ethari’s equal in the shaping of things, but none could even hold a candle to the _feel_ of these pieces. 

_A master craftsman forges a piece of themselves into every item they create,_ his instructors had told him during his training. _The best blades will welcome your hands and your intent, and guide the loosed spirits back to their proper paths._

He understands the lesson now, in a way that he had not before.

Later, as Ethari bends close and winds a measuring tape around each of Runaan’s hands, he discovers that despite his obvious dedication to his craft, Ethari’s hands are still soft. 

This observation earns him a laugh when he voices it aloud. Ethari admits that he is the tiniest bit vain when it comes to his hands. He likes the way his fingers are more sensitive without the thick, protective calluses most in his trade develop. Likes the routine of scrubbing them with a fine pumice stone at the end of the day. Appreciates how it makes delicate work so much easier when he works on jewelry or carving.

Runaan walks home from the smithy with the phantom feeling of Ethari’s fingertips running up the length of his forearm to demonstrate. Four delicate lines of heat upon his skin that stubbornly refuse to fade from his memory as he works himself through his exercises under the light of the moon. The currents of her power under his skin thrum with a new urgency whenever his mind replays the scene for him.

By the end of the first week he’s spent many hours sitting in Ethari’s forge testing grips and bowstrings and balances and being _measured_ over and over until he can feel Ethari’s hands upon him whenever he closes his eyes. The memory of Ethari’s arms as they work the bellows keeps him company in the quiet moments before sleep.

* * *

It’s both a blessing and a curse to have been assigned to the village where he spent the early years of his life. He had friends here, before he left to devote himself to the assassin’s blade. Friends who remember him and welcome him back into their lives like an unexpected gift even after nearly two decades of absence. Runaan returns the sentiment gladly; relieved not to be struggling to integrate himself into someplace new and unfamiliar.

Unfortunately, having friends leads to said friends discovering his… _fascination_ with the village blacksmith. 

Runaan endures their good-natured teasing with perhaps a modicum less grace then he would prefer. He has no idea _why_ the idea of him feeling attraction for someone else is such a foreign concept. He left Silvergrove when he was _seven_ ; is it really so strange that at some point in the past twenty years he grew up and developed _preferences?_

Apparently so, if Lain’s incredulous reaction is anything to go by.

(Runaan had been surprised himself when noticed how… serious his thoughts about Ethari had become. He’s had relationships before; though never anything underpinned with the possibility of long-term commitment. Perhaps it is _that_ , he thinks to himself, that makes Ethari such a captivating prospect).

Once Lain (and to a lesser extent, Tiadrin) get over their surprise, Runaan finds himself inundated with facts about their mutual acquaintance.

Ethari comes from the groves in the far northeastern corner of Xadia. His mother still lives there (his fathers are dead). Ethari apprenticed with some of the finest crafters in Lux Aurea before returning to the border groves to complete his training. Ethari has lived in Silvergrove for the last five years and is doted on by all the village grandmothers for his kindly smile and gentle demeanor.

Ethari is Lain and Tiadrin’s best friend after each other. 

Ethari has a mischievous streak a mile wide but hides it very well.

Ethari has been _very excited_ about a project he’s working on for a certain newcomer.

Ethari is unattached and apparently waiting for someone he can make things for.

The last of these revelations is delivered by Lain with an incredibly un-subtle wink. Runaan, about to depart for the smithy for another round of fittings, rolls his eyes at his friend’s teasing; even as he feels the too-buoyant fluttering sensation that’s taken up residence beneath his breastbone intensify ever so slightly. 

He’s already aware that a crafter of Ethari’s skill has little need for so many fitting sessions (a benefit of a six-month-long dalliance with a smith’s apprentice years ago that is just now beginning to bear second fruit). In truth, most of their sessions are spent talking about Ethari’s latest projects or sketching new weapon designs; although the tape-measure always puts in an appearance at some point. 

Lain’s words make him wonder how many _future_ projects he’s already been measured for. 

* * *

Ethari is, as he always seems to be, working in his smithy when Runaan raps his knuckles on the frame of the open door. Hie eyes flick up for a moment, catching the afternoon sunlight fleetingly as he smiles before returning his focus to his hands.

“Runaan.” 

His brogue is slow and rich and _fond_ , and Runaan feels himself relaxing automatically.

“Come in! Have a seat somewhere. I’ll finish this up and be right with you.”

He does as instructed, settling himself on a clear corner of Ethari’s woodworking bench to watch the smith’s hands finish wrapping the hilt of a slim dagger with silver wire. Not something for him (he prefers grey or brown-dyed leather for its lack of reflectivity, and Ethari knows it), but still soothing to watch take shape.

“Aubron had some new armor-cloth when I went to the market this morning,” Ethari says as he draws a loop of wire tight with his pliers. “And as soon as I saw it I knew it would be _perfect_ for that tunic design I showed you last week. And it _has_ been a while since he’s had the opportunity to replace his blades…”

(Runaan remembers that design _vividly_. His imagination has been _exceedingly thorough_ in its rendering of that tunic’s potential future fitting).

“… Though why he insists on silver wire when all it does is get slippery and make the blade unnecessarily long to counterbalance the extra weight I don’t know.” Ethari continues, deftly tucking the end of the wire into place and fusing it together with a muttered word and a quick rune. He gives Runaan a quick smile as he sets the blade aside. “Your tastes are refreshingly practical and demanding, Runaan; especially after working on something like this.”

Runaan’s traitorous heart skips a beat at Ethari’s compliment. _Damn_ Lain for putting stupid ideas into his head; now he can’t stop thinking about all the times Ethari has expressed his excitement to be working on things for him. And about every time Ethari has remarked upon how the temporary interweaving of their power has put so many new ideas into his head. If he concentrates he can still feel the thread-ends of Ethari’s magic loosely wrapped around his own; gradually pulling apart and falling back into their familiar rhythms over time…  
Fortunately, Ethari interrupts him before he can follow that particular thought too far down the rabbit hole.

“I think I’ve finally figured out a mechanism for joining the blades together into the bow shape that should let them flex properly when you draw it,” he calls from the corner table where he’s taken to keeping his projects for Runaan. Runaan didn’t even notice him moving. “I was hoping to take some measurements of your shooting stance today so I can make sure, though. You brought your bow?”

“Of course.” Runaan has learned by now to carry his current weapons with him when he visits Ethari’s smithy. He unslings his best longbow (Earthblood song-shaped ash, a prize won from a competition not even a year ago) as he moves to join Ethari by the cluttered table, handing it off for inspection. Ethari takes it with a smile, either ignoring or not noticing the twitch of Runaan’s fingers as their hands brush in the exchange. 

It looks somehow smaller in Ethari’s skilled hands. Runaan may be taller and have a longer reach, but Ethari’s hands are much larger than his own; broader across the palm and fingers maybe a full inch longer. Ethari could probably quote the exact difference from memory; one of the very first things he’d crafted as part of this project was a grip that would let him mimic Runaan’s smaller grasp. He uses it now as he tests the balance of the bow and the strength of the draw. Runaan catches himself watching the flex of Ethari’s arm as he pulls the string back, admiring the way the muscle moves under skin and circular markings. 

(He does not look away, but instead allows his gaze to linger as Ethari takes the measure of the weapon. Here, the only consequence he faces is Ethari knowing he’s watching. And perhaps he _wants_ Ethari to know. Wants to feel the buzz of excitement in his chest that comes in the moment the target of his interest becomes _aware)._

Ethari doesn’t seem to catch him this time, as he hands back the bow and chivvies Runaan out into the yard behind the smithy to take some shots at the targets he has set up there. But there is something about his touch as he measures Runaan’s stance that feels _different_ today. It lights a fizzing little fire in Runaan’s stomach as Ethari kneels in the dust of the yard and measures the distance between his feet and the length of his draw. Perhaps he’s only imagining it because of Lain’s words, or projecting his own budding interest; but Ethari’s hands almost seem to _linger_ as he works. 

Perhaps he noticed Runaan looking after all?

Whatever the reason, Runaan finds himself emboldened by it. He doesn’t lean into the touch (he does not wish to interrupt Ethari’s work), but he finds other ways to give himself away. Lets his voice and his eyes betray him as they pour over Ethari’s drawings and models. Stands closer than he usually does when Ethari shows him his prototype locking mechanisms. Allows the slight twitches of his lips at Ethari’s jokes to grow into proper (if still small) smiles. 

He puts away Runaan the Assassin. Here, he can be Runaan the archer and sword-wielder; no need to hide or moderate his admiration of or his attraction for the elf in front of him. It makes him feel _alive;_ intensely aware of the quick beat of his heart and the flush of his skin and the sound of his voice. 

The afternoon seems to fly past, as they always seem to do when he spends them in Ethari’s shop, and before Runaan is ready the shadows are growing longer and Ethari is damping the flames in the forge for the night. Runaan lingers in the doorway as Ethari tidies away the last of his tools and contemplates various things he could say to prolong his visit. Being in Ethari’s company is both calming and exciting at the same time and he craves more of the fluttering feeling he gets in his stomach when he earns one of the smith’s bright smiles.

Ethari’s eyes meet his over the broad span of his shoulders as his hands come up to untie the leather apron he wears in the forge; and Runaan sees something flash in the depths of his honey-golden eyes. And then Ethari does something Runaan has never seen him do before.

He fumbles over the knots.

“It seems I tied these a bit too tight today,” Ethari laughs to himself; and that strange light is back in his eye when he ducks his head under his raised arms to shoot Runaan an apologetic look. “Would you mind giving me a hand, Runaan?”

Runaan feels the flush rising in his cheeks as he leaves his bow by the door and makes his way across the darkened smithy to where Ethari stands by the door that leads into the main part of his house. The light is dim (not that it matters much to either of them), and does little to disguise the offending knot, resting low on the back of Ethari’s neck. Up close, Runaan can see that it is tied no tighter than it had been yesterday or the day before; and that the loop around Ethari’s neck is easily loose enough to be removed over his head in any case.

He shrugs internally and commits himself to Ethari’s game; stepping in closer and bracing his arms on the backs of Ethari’s shoulders and leaning forward as if to get a better look at the offending knot. Ethari obligingly tilts his head forwards; wordlessly giving Runaan permission to continue. The hair at the nape of his neck curls slightly, slightly damp with sweat from bending over the forge, and this close in Runaan can smell the clean herbal scent of his preferred soap mixing with the nut-oil he uses in his hair. Ethari shivers ever so slightly when Runaan’s fingers first brush against his skin; must be able to feel Runaan’s breath on the back of his neck as he carefully (slowly) slips the leather cords loose from their knot.

He’s tempted to linger. But he doesn’t, not while whatever is happening between them remains unspoken. 

“There,” he murmurs, letting the ties fall loose (and letting one hand smooth down the back of Ethari’s neck as if to settle the collar of his shirt into place). “Hardly repayment for your hard work,” he continues as he steps back to get to work on the remaining tie at Ethari’s waist, “but I have to start somewhere, hmmm?”

Ethari laughs, and the electric feeling in Runaan’s gut intensifies as the smith leans back into his touch. “I’m sure I’ll be able to think of other things,” he looks over his shoulder at Runaan, eyes twinkling; “Though the good company and that brain of yours are more payment than I could ever ask for.” 

He catches the apron as it comes loose from his waist, absently folding it as he turns to face Runaan fully. “Perhaps we could combine the two,” Ethari suggests, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. Standing this close Ethari has to tilt his chin upwards to meet Runaan’s eyes, causing his own to catch the light of the lamps distractingly; gold and amber and honey alight with something Runaan can’t identify. “Tiadrin tells me that you used to make desserts?”

Runaan blinks at the rather odd question. _Yes_ , experimenting with sweet things in the kitchen is a hobby he dabbles in when he has the time and inclination; but he’s not quite sure how it relates to combining Ethari’s enjoyment of his company (and oh, what a heady thought _that_ is) with repayment for Ethari’s hard work. On the surface it would seem simple: Ethari wants him to bring him something sweet that they can eat together; but Runaan knows him well enough by now to be sure that there’s more to whatever Ethari’s thinking than just that.

“Yes, She’s not wrong,” he answers, raising an eyebrow and meeting Ethari’s gaze squarely. “Should I bring you something sweet next time I come to visit?” His tone borders on the edge of flirtatious, the potential double meaning of his words not lost on him. Or Ethari, if the subtle flush along his cheekbones is any indication. Excitement thrums under his skin at the way Ethari’s pupils dilate ever so slightly before he catches himself.

“I wouldn’t say no if you did,” Ethari’s smile stretches into a grin. “But that’s not exactly what I had in mind…”

* * *

Ethari is not quite sure what he expected Runaan’s hobbies to be when he asked Tiadrin what he likes to do in his spare time; but ‘experimenting with confectionary in the kitchen’ was definitely not on the list. He’s somewhat prepared for it to be something far removed from his profession; knows that assassins are encouraged to pursue interests outside of their vocation to keep them stable. But he has trouble reconciling that knowledge with the revelation that is Runaan’s apparent talent for making sweets.

Tiadrin’s stories about seven-year-old Runaan and his adventures in his parents’ kitchen seem at odds with the quiet and meticulous elf he’s been getting to know. 

And yet it would seem her stories were accurate, because here he sits at his kitchen table, chin propped up on his hand as he watches Runaan methodically open and empty every cabinet and cupboard in his kitchen and then start tossing items into a bowl seemingly at random. 

Runaan glances in his direction and his lips twitch up into a small smile before he tosses a moonberry up in the air and bounces it off his elbow so that it flies neatly into the bowl. Ethari can’t help smiling back because as unexpected as this side of Runaan is he can’t seem to get enough of it. Watching him do silly tricks in the kitchen feels intimate; something only he gets to see because Runaan wants him to.

Watching Runaan lick a spot of whatever he’s making off the end of his finger feels pretty damn intimate too. Especially when it’s immediately followed by another twitch of the elf’s lips that’s _definitely_ a smirk when he catches Ethari watching. 

Ethari feels the flush spreading over his cheeks and up his ears. This is a very different Runaan than the one that peers over his shoulder while he diagrams weapons and sits patiently while Ethari measures the span of his hands. 

(He does his best to keep things professional. He is at _work_ after all; even if the work he does for Runaan doesn’t feel like actual work. Still, the way Runaan allows him into his space without the slightest hint of unease is _tempting)._

Before today the only time Ethari has seen Runaan without at least a padded tunic was that first night during the binding (a night he does his best not to think about while others are in the same room, as the memory is _particularly_ stimulating. Runaan is an exceptionally well-made elf, from the tips of his well-proportioned toes to the elegant swoop of his horns). Now he putters about Ethari’s kitchen in a sleeveless tunic, dark leggings and soft shoes; with his hair pulled up into a messy bun and a smudge of flour on his cheek. The sight of him sends a jolt of electricity through Ethari’s stomach and makes a traitorous part of his brain imagine what it would be like to have him in his kitchen like this every day.

Something small bounces off the bridge of his nose and plops into the cup of water on the table in front of him. A moonberry.

Runaan is laughing when he looks up from fishing the offending fruit out of his drink. Quiet chuckles that make his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle up at the corners. Ethari attempts to cover the embarrassingly strong reaction he has to this by flicking the berry back at him.

Runaan simply catches it in his mouth and flashes his infuriating (devastating) little smirk at Ethari again before turning back to the mixing bowl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, Runaan is the inventor of Moonberry Surprise (In fact, you just witnessed him doing it). 
> 
> The next chapter gets... way darker? Only temporarily, but it's a pretty big shift. Warnings for someone using dark magic to compel someone (not Runaan or Ethari) into a sexual situation (DW, they get interrupted). But once that's done things will be back to this much lighter tone again, so never fear!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Runaan's first assignment does not go as smoothly as it should have. Sometimes waiting for the right moment has unavoidable consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the chapter where I attempt to introduce all my ideas for how Moonshadow Assassins work as an organization without abandoning the plot. 
> 
> TW for a very brief dub/non-con scene between a mage and an enthralled victim. It's not particularly graphic, but fair warning that there's a sexual side to it. Don't worry, Runaan saves the day.

Ethari finishes Runaan’s blade-bow with just a few days to spare before the next full moon. 

(He’s tempted to drag it out long enough to require another reading session, but professional pride wins out in the end).

It’s worth it for the look on Runaan’s face when he grasps it for the first time. Ethari has spent hours fine-tuning the balance and flow of the enchantments along it’s length to align precisely with the magical nexus at the base of Runaan’s palm so that the connection feel seamless and instantaneous. Has spent even longer meditating over the hot coals of the forge to be sure that it _feels_ like an assassin’s weapon; eager to serve, ready to guide souls lost to darkness back to the light of the Moon’s pathways to be reborn. Peaceful. Righteous. Patient.

It’s clear from his reaction that Runaan can feel all of these things as he holds it in his hands, a look of something resembling _awe_ on his face; and Ethari feels a swell of pride in his chest for having put it there. 

He watches Runaan put his work through its paces in the yard behind the smithy. Nearly crows with delight when Runaan is able to fire an arrow and switch from bow to swords before the it reaches the target. He makes the feat of dexterity seem effortless; one fluid movement from the initial reach for the arrow in its quiver to the final flourish that leads into his ready stance. 

(Ethari is torn between fixing the flex and twist of Runaan’s body into his memory, and wondering if he could enchant the quiver to place the arrows on the string itself with the right touch).

* * *

Barely a day later, and his assassin (and he’s still not quite sure when he started thinking of Runaan as ‘his’ assassin) has his first assignment and is preparing to leave by nightfall.

A simple reconnaissance mission, Runaan reassures him when he stops by the smithy to let Ethari know that he’s going to be away for a few days. Nothing too dangerous; just investigating reports of strange comings and goings among some of the elves from one of the nearby villages. 

Ethari still feels the clench of fear in his stomach; because if something goes wrong they’ll never have a chance to acknowledge whatever is growing between them. However unlikely, the possibility fills him with regret for letting it remain unspoken so long.

“Come back to me?” He asks. They may not have spoken their thoughts and feelings as words; but that does not mean there is no _understanding_ between them. No _expectation_. 

Runaan looks up from a half-finished drawing on Ethari’s workbench. Meets Ethari’s with a look says he understands the plea and promise implied in Ethari’s words.

_Be safe so we may test if this spark between us can grow._

He inclines his head ever so slightly. “Of course, Ethari. Be well; I won’t be long.” He grabs one of Ethari’s large hands in his own looks up through his lashes (to devastating effect). “Your hard work will keep me safe. I know it.”

Ethari feels himself go bright red. Because _moon above_ he did _not_ expect him to come out with a line like _that._ Then corner of Runaan’s lip twitches upwards and Ethari suddenly realizes that his words are _familiar._ He groans and shoves a now-chuckling Runaan in the direction of the door.

“Don’t you quote Bride of the _Skywings at me Runaan!”_ He calls after him. “Watch yourself or I won’t let you talk me into making you that crossbow-knife when you get back!”

Runaan simply grins back, mirth and a spark of something that might be _affection_ glinting in hie eyes. “As if you could stop yourself if I didn’t. I’ll be careful, I promise.” His smile softens. “Take care of yourself, Ethari. I’ll come see you as soon as I return.”

Ethari stands in the doorway until Runaan has disappeared from sight around the corner of the house.

* * *

His first assignment is…much more complicated than it should have been.

Runaan identifies the elves in question with ease. All of them seem _wrong_ somehow, as if the moon’s power does not sit easily under their skin. They are nervous and _forgetful,_ which is worrying. Runaan spies one of them collecting adoriburrs in a jar by the side of the road into the village, but when he casually questions him about it later the elf in question seems to genuinely have no idea where he had been all afternoon (to his great distress).

Something is very wrong in this village, and Runaan needs to find out what it is.

(He sends a note by arrow to his superiors detailing his suspicions before he makes his next move. If he is correct then this is quite possibly a much more dangerous assignment than anyone thought. The response is swift: continue as necessary; assistance on the way).

The very next night Runaan follows his targets to the source of the trouble; a cave near the edge of the forest along the border. He watches five elves from the village enter. Four he had identified as targets, and a fifth he had not. The last feels much less _wrong_ to his senses than the others. A new recruit, perhaps?

He creeps closer to the cave mouth using the cover of the underbrush, blunted arrow nocked on his bow.

The sight inside is enough to send chills down his spine.

The five villagers stand unnaturally straight and still in a line before a cloaked figure. A human, from the shape of the head under the deep hood concealing their face. Each of the elves holds a jar or basket containing Xadian animals and plants. Runaan’s lip curls in distaste. _Poachers._

Runaan settles in to watch the transaction take place; better to be sure he had identified all those involved than to interrupt and potentially let a latecomer escape. 

But then…

The cloaked figure makes a gesture with their hands and the elves before them fall to their knees as one. A feminine laugh reaches Runaan’s ears before another gesture has the kneeling elves presenting their offerings to her as if they knelt before the queen. Runaan suppresses a violent shiver as the slick, oily aura of dark magic fills the air.

These are not poachers.

They are _slaves._

Inside the cave, the human mage slips back her hood and steps forward to collect the same jar of adoriburrs that Runaan had seen one of the elves filling not two days before. She holds it up in one hand to inspect its contents for a moment, before smiling down at the elf at her feet and running her spare hand possessively, almost contemplatively, over the swooping curve of his horn. Runaan’s grip tightens on his bow at the complete lack of reaction from the elf as the mage’s fingers curl around the silver marriage-bands that adorn the base of his horns and casually slide them off.

“You’ve done well, Martus,” the woman croons in the unresponsive elf’s ear, setting the bands off to one side. “Rise.”

The elf (Martus, apparently), rises to his feet before her like the puppet he no doubt is under her power. The mage smiles with false beneficence reaching out to trace the tip of a finger down the strip of skin left bare by his unfastened nightshirt. “You deserve to be rewarded for your hard work, don’t you?”

Bile rises in the back of Runaan’s throat as her other hand comes forward to tease at the laces of his loose trousers. “Kieran, would you hand me that bottle by your friend’s foot there? Good boy.” She takes the small glass vial from the hand of one of the other ensorceled elves and traces a rune over it with a finger. A twitch of her other hand and the laces holding Martus’ trousers around his hips comes loose, allowing them to slide down his legs, leaving the elf bare. Martus makes a vague noise of discomfort as the cool night air meets his skin. In the brush Runaan switches his non-lethal blunt-tipped arrow for a deadly barbed one.

“Just a moment, pet. Be patient.” She shows him the bottle. “One touch of this and you’ll feel just wonderful, and I’ll have everything I need to keep you as my pet permanently. Won’t that be nice?”

The elf does not answer, but a flick of her wrist has him gasping and rising to her attentions. Runaan readies his shot, waiting for the right moment. Much as he would like to put his arrow through the witch’s neck immediately, he needs to wait for the majority of her attention to be devoted to her task. She doubtless has protective wards in place, so he will only get one shot. She will know it’s coming before it lands; so he must wait for the moment it will take her the longest to react in.

He breathes in.

Exhales. 

The mage is bending down to ensure the vial is aligned correctly to collect the elf’s spend, one hand around his length and the other guiding the bottle. Martus stares unseeingly at the cave wall over her shoulder.

Inhale.

The night air is cool and still. The woman makes a satisfied noise and brings the mouth of the vial into contact with the elf’s skin. 

Martus gasps.

Runaan lets the arrow fly.

It speeds toward its target straight and silent as a moonbeam.

The mage gasps, her abortively jerking toward her neck as his arrow pierces the major artery leading to her brain and severs her spinal cord beyond. She collapses to the ground.

Dead.

Exhale.

Runaan closes his eyes and whispers the traditional prayer to the moon to guide the loosed soul back to her pathways. In the cave the woman’s hold on her unwilling servants breaks and they cry out in fear and revulsion. One of them, likely Martus, is sobbing. Runaan knocks another arrow and waits to see if anyone else is drawn by the noise.

Nothing.

He rises to his feet and makes himself known. Escorts the distraught elves from the cave and makes them sit in a patch of moonlight filtering through the trees. Takes a moment to give Martus his pouch of died fruit to distract himself with (as little as he knows it will help).

Takes a deep breath and steps back into the cave.

The dark mage lies in a pool of her own blood, eyes ghastly wide and sightless. He kneels quickly and draws their lids shut before checking his arrow. The runes around the nock that would indicate any sort of magical trap are dark, so he carefully removes it and cleans it before sliding it back into his quiver.

The vial she used on Martus he grinds into dust under the heel of his boot before taking a small vial of oil from his belt and pouring it over the contents. A strike of his flint over the pommel of his knife and the oil flashes to flame, breaking any enchantment that might have remained.

Those things done, he takes a moment to write and then send a note to his superiors before collecting Martus’ discarded marriage bands and heading back to check on the mage’s victims.

(He doubts the elf will want to wear these bands ever again, but they should be properly melted down before his partner fashions him new ones).

* * *

Paeral, his immediate superior, arrives with a healer and a mage in tow shortly after sunrise. Runaan happily leaves the human mage’s victims to those more qualified to aid them, taking a few minutes to close his eyes and meditate before Paeral seeks him out.

He’s done well, she tells him. His kill is clean and obviously swift. She praises his ability to adapt to the changing circumstances of his assignment and his prompt reporting of his suspicions so that aid was already nearby when it was needed.

And then she drops the shoe that Runaan has been waiting for ever since his fingers let go of his bowstring.

“I’m taking you off duty for the next month, Runaan. Guild’s orders,” she says with an apologetic shrug. “I know it’s your first assignment as a fully-trained member, but you know the rules. One moon’s cycle off-duty after every assignment where you have to take a life.”

He bows his head in assent. He does, indeed, know the rules. “Of course.”

She smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “Good lad. I can tell you’re one of the rock-solid ones, but taking a life is still a heavy burden.” She takes a scroll from her belt and hands it to him. “Report to me in person in thirty days and we’ll see about getting you another assignment. Until then, take some time to relax and unwind a bit. Meditate often, spend time with your friends, catch up on things around the house. Normal, every-day things. It might seem like a bother right now, but you’ll be thanking me in thirty years when you’re not a deranged neurotic killer.”

“I understand,” Runaan says. And he does. An assassin must be stable of mind and heart to properly carry out their duty. They are the merciful hands of the moon, freeing souls from corrupted bodies so they can be purified in her light and return to her bright paths. 

There is no place among their numbers for those who delight in the shedding of blood. They are infiltrators. Scouts. Covert messengers. And only on the rarest occasions, assassins. Many of the elves Runaan has trained with will never take more than one or two lives in their entire careers. Those that take more are carefully monitored.

Runaan has never enjoyed the scrutiny of strangers.

* * *

It is nearly noon before he departs; and edging towards dusk when he arrives back in Silvergrove. The crescent moon is just beginning to shine her watery light through the gaps in the forest canopy, and the scent of the night-blooming flowers hangs heavy and fresh in the air.

His feet are slightly sore, and he is tired from so many hours spent awake. Still; he has a promise to keep before he retires to bed. Ethari would surely understand if he put his visit off until morning, but Runaan wants him to know that he values his word to Ethari over his own desires; that making sure Ethari knows he’s alive and well is more important than (and is an element of) his own physical comfort.

The forge is darkened and empty when he checks the windows, but there’s a light in the house proper, so he makes for that door instead. Raps his knuckles three times against the brightly-painted wood and leans against the wall to stretch out his sore calves while he waits.

His ears pick up the sounds of dishes being set down and bare feet padding across wood, and then the door is opening to reveal Ethari, still in his dirty work clothes and with a streak of soot across the line of his cheek. His face lights up in a smile when he sees who’s at the door; one Runaan gladly returns without hesitation. He reaches out boldly to wipe the soot from Ethari’s face with a thumb and chuckles at the way the smith’s ears immediately turn beet red.

(In his chest he feels the tight knot of _something_ that he’s been carrying since he let his arrow fly loosen. He puts death away in its place for later and lets himself feel the thrum of his heartbeat and the heat of Ethari’s skin and feels _alive)._

“Keeping busy while I was away?” He asks, showing Ethari his now-sooty thumb. “Make anything interesting?”

Ethari’s blush flares even darker as he hastily wipes the rest of the grime off his face. “No more than usual. Your assignment went well?”

Runaan winces at that, but quickly waves dismissively when Ethari’s face suddenly tightens with concern. “There were… unforeseen complications; but the only real danger was to others, not myself,” he offers quickly. “The situation demanded that I take a life to prevent harm to innocents. My superiors compliment the quality of your work, and assure me that their soul departed smoothly and was properly purified; but there is always a _weight_ that lingers when one strikes another so.” He shrugs, and his lips twitch upwards again. “Though seeing you is already helping to lift it.”

“Oh.” Ethari’s eyes widen minutely at his words, but the worried look is already draining from his face to be replaced with something warmer. “I’m glad to help, Runaan. Would you like to come in and sit for a while? You must be tired, and there’s a bit of dinner left that’s still hot if you’re hungry.”

Runaan feels his smile return in full force as he gestures for Ethari to lead the way. “Right on both counts, Master Smith. I would like nothing better.”


End file.
